Chapter 336: Walking the Spider [bonus]
Chapter 336: Chapter 336: Walking the Spider [bonus]
Yesterday, when Agnes had come with lunch, every branch on that Whomping Willow had hung limp. Bark cracked and grey. It might as well have been dead.
Now the branches still drooped, but the lifelessness had lifted. A few swayed gently.
She let out a breath, then looked at Regulus.
He stood beside the tree, palm pressed to the trunk, eyes closed. A palm-sized spider lay draped across his shoulder, all eight legs splayed wide, motionless.
The Whomping Willow wasn’t attacking him.
Agnes thought for a moment, then raised her wand and cast Protego on herself before stepping closer. Carefully.
"Young Mr. Black."
Regulus opened his eyes. "Ms. Agnes."
She set the lunch box on the ground. The teapot drifted down beside it. She smiled. "Happy New Year."
The corner of his mouth lifted. He nodded. "Happy New Year."
"Yorkshire Pudding and Roast Beef," she said, crouching to open the box. "And the last piece of Christmas pudding, with brandy butter sauce."
Steam rose from the box. The eggy richness of Yorkshire Pudding mingled with the fat-and-salt scent of Roast Beef, sharp and vivid in the cold air.
"This one’s for the little spider."
She pulled a paper bundle from her apron pocket and unfolded it. Inside lay a palm-sized cut of raw venison, blood-threaded and neatly trimmed.
Baruk lifted his head from Regulus’s shoulder. Eight eyes fixed on the meat. His pedipalps opened and closed once.
Then he turned to Regulus, clicked softly. Regulus gave a small nod.
Baruk sprang from his shoulder, eight legs landing in front of the stone basin. He didn’t eat right away. Instead he looked up at Agnes, pedipalps working once, and produced a short, crisp click.
"...Baruk..."
Agnes bent down and regarded the palm-sized spider.
She’d probably identified his species long ago. A witch who’d spent her life working with nature would know an Acromantula when she saw one.
But she’d never asked, and she didn’t now. She only smiled, warm and easy. "Mr. Baruk, happy New Year."
Baruk’s pedipalps sped up. Click-click-click.
He probably didn’t know what "Mr." meant, but he’d heard her use it before Regulus’s name. That was enough to make him happy.
The pedipalps rattled off three or four rapid clicks, then he lowered his head to the venison. Front legs braced against the edge of the stone basin, back six tucked in. He ate with surprising delicacy.
Regulus glanced at him. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"This willow..." Agnes’s gaze moved to the trunk beside them. A small crease formed between her brows. "Yesterday when I looked at it..."
"Verdant Magic." Regulus kept his tone casual. "Seeing if I can bring it back."
The crease smoothed. She studied the knots that had deepened in color, then the fresh buds at the branch tips.
"It’s growing." Her voice was soft, but the pleasure came through clearly.
People who spent their lives around plants were like that. They liked seeing things alive.
"The circulation’s running again," Regulus offered. "Weak, but give it time. Almost there."
Agnes nodded. Then she was quiet for a moment, watching him, something hesitant in her expression. Words hovering behind her teeth.
Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t guess. He looked at her and waited.
She started to leave, took two steps, stopped, turned back. "Young Mr. Black."
She glanced toward the coast first, then back at him. "Snell Rock. That little island to the west. It’s been sitting there for... I don’t know how many years."
Regulus cleared his throat. A faint prick of discomfort.
Snell Rock. The island had a name.
Once something had a name, someone had used it. And if they’d used it, they remembered it.
A rare flicker of guilt. He kept his voice as even as he could. "Sorry... Accident... Sank it."
Next time, pick a test target further out. Anything nearby, even if nobody owns it, is a poor choice if it has a name.
Agnes looked at him. Another silence.
An island that size. You couldn’t sink it on purpose without serious effort. How did you do it by accident?
Then she waved a hand. Her apron sleeve flapped in the wind. Her tone betrayed nothing. "No harm done. It was blocking the shipping lane anyway."
She met his eyes again. "The Salamanders you asked for are ready. Four adults, two juveniles."
Baruk lifted his head from the venison at the word "Salamanders," pedipalps still trailing blood. Two quick clicks. He seemed excited.
"Shall I have them sent to the cottage?" Agnes asked.
"If you would, Ms. Agnes." Regulus inclined his head. "Thank you."
Agnes smiled again. "Of course, young Mr. Black."
She said nothing more, turned, stepped back over the rope boundary, dropped the Protego, and walked away.
Baruk finished the venison and climbed back to his shoulder. A single click.
"...Island?"
Regulus lowered his hand from the trunk, withdrew the Verdant Magic, and started eating.
The Yorkshire Pudding was still warm. He scooped a large bite, the brandy butter sauce rich and fragrant. The Roast Beef was tender, juicy.
"Island," he said between bites. "Yesterday. Didn’t bring you along."
Baruk raised a front leg, tracing a shape in the air. "...Big?"
"Fairly big." Regulus nodded. "Gone now, though."
Baruk clicked twice. He seemed to conclude that a big thing being gone wasn’t particularly important. The leg retracted, and he settled on the shoulder to digest.
After eating, Regulus drank a few mouthfuls of tea, then pressed his palm to the trunk again and resumed the infusion of Verdant Magic.
Afternoon sunlight was warmer than the morning’s.
Eyes closed, Verdant Magic flowing from his palm into the wood. Inside the Whomping Willow, the circulation strengthened by slow increments.
---
The sun drifted west. He held the infusion until evening.
When the sun touched the horizon, he pulled his hand from the trunk.
The moment Verdant Magic cut off, the Whomping Willow’s condition began to slide.
Moisture faded from the trunk’s surface. The green bud tips stopped growing. Branches that had been swaying gently slowed again.
A few minutes later, the tree looked noticeably worse than its afternoon peak, but far better than the morning.
The buds held. They hadn’t withered back. The branches had slowed, but they still moved.
He pressed his palm to the trunk one more time to check. Magic Circulation was stable. The roots were absorbing ambient magic. Both were slow, probably enough to keep the tree alive, not enough for it to recover.
A long way from healthy, but it wouldn’t die.
Recovering on its own was unlikely. It needed an expert.
He could do it himself, but he didn’t have the time. A few days of holiday remained, and Baruk’s remodeling was next.
Professor Sprout was the foremost authority on magical plants in all of Britain. If anyone could nurse this Whomping Willow back to health, it was her.
He’d ask after term started. See if she fancied taking on another Whomping Willow.
He walked out from under the tree. Baruk had ended up on the trunk at some point. Seeing him move, the spider shot out a thread of silk, swung across, and landed on his shoulder.
Regulus turned his head. His tone was light. "Let’s take you for a walk."
He didn’t recast the spell.
Agnes had already seen Baruk face to face. No point hiding him anymore. A talking spider was never going to pass for ordinary.
The remodeling would start soon anyway, which meant returning to full size. Baruk hadn’t been his natural dimensions in a long time. Good to stretch.
One wizard, one spider, heading toward the cliffs.
Sea wind blew from the west. Dead grass bent eastward.
Sunlight came in low off the water, stretching their shadows long across the ground. His was thin and tall. Baruk’s was round, bobbing beside his head.
Twenty minutes out, Regulus shrugged his shoulder. Baruk dropped to the ground, and the change began.
Spell didn’t fade all at once. It was like a balloon being slowly inflated.
The torso first. The carapace expanded, fine fuzz thickening back into coarse bristles. Then the eight legs stretched, joints popping and cracking as they lengthened.
Baruk looked down at his own front legs, growing longer by the second. He paused, confused.
He tried walking and found his stride no longer matched his leg length. Every step carried him further than expected. Two strides in, he nearly tripped over himself.
The adjustment came fast. An Acromantula’s nervous system was quick. Within seconds his gait smoothed out, though the rhythm had changed.
Long strides now. Each footfall thumped against the earth.
A quarter of an hour later, Spell had fully faded. A full-grown Acromantula stood on the coastal cliffs of Cornwall.
Nearly two meters long. Leg span wider still. The carapace gleamed dark brown in the fading sun, bristles dense and long. Eight eyes arranged in two rows caught the light, glowing pale.
He was bigger than the last time in the Forbidden Forest.
Living with Regulus meant no shortage of food or shelter. He’d eaten dragon meat, for Merlin’s sake. The Forbidden Forest couldn’t match that.
Freedom from the colony’s hierarchy probably played a role too. Without the suppression of the pack, his size had crept up unnoticed.
Baruk was visibly delighted with his full body back.
He turned in a circle first, legs stamping the ground one after another, testing that they all still worked.
Then he bolted. Eight legs churning in alternation, kicking up clouds of dust and torn grass.
He ran a wide loop around Regulus, finished one lap and kept going, faster with each pass. Legs pounding the earth in a rapid staccato, unable to stop.
After two laps he sprinted away, vanishing behind the scrub at the cliff’s edge. Less than half a minute later, he came tearing back.
He skidded to a halt in front of Regulus, all eight legs driving into the soil. Momentum carried his body forward another half meter. Bristles flared up and settled.
Then he lowered himself. Front legs tucked, hind legs braced, back flat, all eight eyes locked on Regulus.
A deep, rough click rumbled from between his pedipalps, fuller and heavier than it sounded at small scale. "...Regulus... get on..."
The corner of Regulus’s mouth curved. A whispered Flight Spell lifted him, and he drifted up and settled onto Baruk’s carapace, crossing his legs.
The surface was more stable than he’d expected. The shell’s curvature cradled him. Solid.
Baruk rose, wheeled, and ran. Faster than before.
He ran along the cliff edge. Dead grass on the left, the sea on the right. Wind hit them from the side, lifting Regulus’s robes.
Baruk ran a stretch, turned back, ran further, turned again.
Each pass longer than the last, as though measuring his own legs and lungs.
He was happy.
No Acromantula raised in the Forbidden Forest could dislike being big.
Size was status. Size was strength. Size was the Forest’s oldest law: I’m bigger, so I eat you.
Baruk had adapted to palm-sized life for Regulus’s sake. Now, restored to his true dimensions, the joy was practically airborne.
When he’d run enough, Baruk stopped at the cliff’s edge, abdomen round and gently heaving.
Regulus patted the carapace. "Come on. Back to the cottage. Time to get stronger."
Baruk’s large pedipalps clattered. "...Stronger... stronger..."
He carried Regulus back at a trot, all eight long legs churning at speed.
At the front door, Baruk pushed straight in.
And jammed.
A two-meter Acromantula. A stone cottage doorframe roughly 1.2 meters wide. His head alone wouldn’t fit.
Baruk backed out. Eight eyes studied the doorframe, then studied himself. One front leg lifted, gauging the comparison.
The comparison was unfavorable. He genuinely could not fit.
He sank to the ground. A single click, low and displeased.
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